


Valley of Plenty

by Anonymous



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Animal Death, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Flashbacks, Food Issues, M/M, Not Beta Read, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, descriptions of childhood sexual assault, descriptions of past assault, not between the main characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:07:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29904999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Some painful memories crop up for Lambert during a sparring session with Geralt.Eskel just wants the two of them to get their shit together.POV switches indicated by all capitalized character names.Chapter warnings in the end notes of each chapter. Please check them to stay safe.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Lambert
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Cat

GERALT

“Faster,” Geralt can’t help but grunt, knowing he’s playing a dangerous game. Lambert had moved too slowly on that last parry and something like that could get him killed on the Path. Sure enough a familiar fire lights in Lambert’s eyes.

“Yes, Vesemir,” He sneers, ducking and lunging towards Geralt. He nearly sideswipes Geralt, but Geralt manages to leap back at the last second, tipping precariously and spinning, blocking Lambert’s blade. Sweat drips down Geralt’s spine and he grimaces.

They’re both exhausted, having been at it for nearly an hour now. Vesemir and Eskel had gone out to hunt, and Geralt could see anxious energy simmering in Lambert’s eyes, threatening to boil over. He had suggested that they spar, hoping it would help the younger wolf work out some of his tension.

It didn’t appear to be working.

This past year was only Lambert’s 9th year on the Path, and Geralt knows that coming back to Kaer Morhen is difficult for him. Every year he’s tense and jittery for the first week, then he’d mellow out a bit, relaxing into routine and the familiar surroundings. Then the calm period would pass and he’d become acerbic, biting, and defensive. They were in the first week rut at the moment, and as usual Geralt is failing to help him.

He has no idea what to do. Somehow everything he tries manages to be the wrong thing. But Eskel…Eskel always knows exactly how to help Lambert.

Every year the castle will go oddly quiet and Geralt will find Eskel and Lambert together somewhere— sometimes it’s Eskel reading while Lambert tinkers with brews, or Lambert helping Eskel feed his goats, or the two of them lounging in the castle’s huge library while Eskel reads aloud. Lambert always looks so at peace in those moments— the usual storm behind his eyes calmed and smooth as an undisturbed lake.

Something sharp and painful jabs at him in those moments. He wants to be able to provide that for Lambert. He wants to be the reason for that calm, quiet look…

Maybe he’s too much like Vesemir. He sees how Vesemir’s worry over the young wolf comes out as condescending and overbearing, and he doesn’t want to be like that at all, but he also wants Lambert to _live_ —

Lambert manages to shove his sword to the side, trying to get past Geralt’s guard. Geralt dances back, keeping pace with Lambert’s advance.

“Your grip is too tight,” Geralt says, noting how Lambert’s knuckles have gone white on the hilt of his practice sword.

Lambert lets out a frustrated yell, breath heaving. He stops his advance and Geralt lets his sword drop to his side, muscles burning.

“You done?” Geralt asks, then immediately grimaces. Fuck.

The younger wolf snarls, dropping his sword and _lunging._

Geralt throws his blade aside in surprise, hearing it clang against stone as Lambert’s bulk slams into him. They fall easily and Geralt reverts to instinct, using Lambert’s momentum to twist them and get the advantage. He was always better at hand-to-hand combat than Lambert, and in several easy moves he has Lambert pinned belly down to the cold stone of the courtyard.

Geralt grips one of Lambert’s wrists, pulling it back behind him and holding it against Lambert’s spine. Pinning his other forearm across Lambert’s shoulders, Geralt holds his chest down against the stone. He braces his knees between Lambert’s thighs and presses his legs apart, making it impossible for him to gain any purchase. A familiar alarm flares in Geralt’s mind.

This is a dangerous position— it would be so easy to pin the younger witcher down and _take_ —

Lambert twists, wrenching at his arm—

_Fuck._

“Stop, Lambert.”

Lambert snarls at him, trying to gain some kind of purchase—

“You’re going to hurt yourself—“ Geralt growls, worry making him tighten his grip on Lambert’s wrist. Beneath the mixed scent of their sweat Lambert smells wrong— full of fear and sour shame—

“Get off of me,” Lambert snaps, voice tight and panicked. His heart pounds frantically beneath Geralt’s forearm—

“Geralt!” Eskel’s voice yells.

He jerks his head up, surprised. Eskel’s at the gatehouse leading Scorpion into the courtyard, two large deer carcasses slung across the horse's back.

“Geralt, get off of him,” Eskel yells, dropping Scorpion's lead and jogging across the courtyard.

Geralt leaps up at the command, stepping away from Lambert's prone form. Lambert presses his palms to the ground but doesn't move to get up. Geralt watches his ribs heave beneath his light tunic— the dark material soaked in sweat. 

“Lambert?” Eskel asks, jogging to stand level with Geralt. His voice is sharp, demanding, and Geralt wants to know what the fuck is going on.

Geralt calls Lambert’s name, cringing at the harsh grate of his own voice. Lambert stands up abruptly, wobbling on his feet and avoiding their gaze. Geralt reaches a hand out, intending to help him balance, but Lambert takes off— bolting towards the courtyard’s back entrance.

The _fuck?_

Geralt goes to follow after Lambert, but Eskel’s hand against his chest stops him.

“Let me,” he says. There’s something serious and dark in his eyes, and Geralt is helpless to do anything but nod. Eskel takes off after Lambert at a jog and Geralt frowns hard, grinding his teeth at the familiar ache in his gut. The urge to go after Lambert is strong, but he would probably just upset the younger witcher even more...

He looks down at his hands, wondering how it had all gone so wrong. He thought sparring would _help—_

A throat clearing makes him turn towards the drawbridge.

Vesemir stands by the gatehouse, Scorpion's lead in his hands.

“You gonna help me carry these in?” he asks.

Geralt sighs.

LAMBERT

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—_

Lambert bolts down the steps leading away from the courtyard, slamming his way through the exit by the kitchens and pauses along the back of the castle. He stares out across the vast mountain range surrounding Kaer Morhen, down the steep slope along the back of the castle and out towards the large, placid lake below.

The lake.

He gives in to his pounding heart— running down the steep drop away from the decaying castle, following a well-worn footpath. He could probably run this path in his sleep, he’s done it so many times— running from his past and present, from Vesemir, from his nightmares and his reality and _Geralt—_

The path leads down into thickly clustered redwoods—only wide enough for one person to travel alone and visible in the form of a thin, snaking path of grass worn down to dirt. He doesn’t stop his downward trajectory until the path opens up to the lake— vast and calm and deep.

Lungs burning, he jogs to the edge of the water and stumbles to a stop.

What the _fuck_ was that? He hasn’t panicked like that in a long time. And never because of something Geralt did. Geralt rarely touches him, but when he does…Lambert always gets this weird twisting feeling in his chest. It’s confusing and painful and good—but what just happened…his skin crawls, memories he had thought long buried tearing their way to the surface.

Fuck. Each time those memories surface it takes more and more effort to shove them back into the dungeon where they belong. Remembered pain has him limping to a flat space away from the trees, sitting tentatively and trying to regulate his erratic breathing.

He braces his palms against the wild grass, focusing on the cool, soft blades under his fingers.

_Melitele’s tits, what the fuck?_

He wants to crawl out of his body, tear his skin off, anything to get that poisonous _feeling_ off of him—

“Lambert.”

He flinches, anger swelling up. Fuck. He’s so fucked up that he didn’t notice Eskel walking up behind him. He bends his legs, bracing his feet against the earth and drops his arms to his knees, refusing to say anything.

Gods how embarrassing. He completely lost his shit in front of all of them. Vesemir is going to be even more of a nightmare to deal with now.

Eskel drops to a seat next to him with a sigh, staring out over the lake's surface. Lambert breathes deeply, trying to focus on his safe, familiar scent.

They sit in silence for a long moment, staring out across the lake. He really, really doesn’t want to hear it—

“You remember that cat you had? Small black and white thing?” Eskel asks.

 _What?_ Lambert frowns.

“Yeah,” he grunts, wondering what the fuck Eskel is getting at. He just went insane and Eskel wants to talk about a cat?

“You named her Cat. ‘Like the potion,’ you’d say,” Eskel says, and his voice has a smile in it— as though the memory was a good one. “That cat liked you. She’d sleep next to you and beg for scraps at the table. Only from you though, no one else.”

“Yeah,” Lambert says, heart stinging. He hadn’t thought about that stupid creature in years. Lambert had found her when she was a couple weeks old, her little voice squeaking out loud protests in one of the castle’s stables. _“Abandoned,”_ Vesemir had said. _“There’s probably something wrong with it.”_

But Lambert loved her. He had taken care of her— feeding her and making toys out of scrap cloth and keeping her in bed with him at night. She would purr and purr and purr, cuddled up against his belly. Every morning she’d wake him by patting her soft toes along his jaw, her delicate whiskers tickling across his face. And Lambert was _proud_ of himself for the first time ever. Cats are notoriously afraid of witchers, but _this one_ liked Lambert. She made him _special_.

He remembers waking up one morning to find his bed empty and Brenot and Asi giggling and smirking at him. Lambert was confused by Cat’s absence, but figured maybe she had gotten up for some late night rat hunting and went about his day...

Until he found Cat strung up in the kitchen, skinned and hanging from a meat hook.

 _“For dinner, Lambert,”_ Asi had taunted, cackling as Lambert had pulled the animal’s body down, burning tears streaming down his face. That’s how Vesemir had found him, crying in the kitchen with the skinned animal in his lap.

Despite his crying, Vesemir had taken Cat’s body away from him and chastised him for his tears. After that Lambert promised himself he wouldn’t get attached to any animals. Never again.

He didn’t eaten for nearly a week afterwards, sick at the thought of food. It was only when Vesemir had berated him for being too emotional that he choked down some rabbit stew, only to puke it up moments later, thinking of Cat’s body hanging in the kitchens— her soft fur stripped from her body, dripping blood onto the counter. He hasn’t eaten meat since.

“There a reason you’re bringing this up?” Lambert asks, voice sharp with the memory. He already feels like shit, and Eskel is not helping by bringing this crap up...

“You remember how Asi and Brenot never spoke to you again?” Eskel asks.

Lambert shrugs. Sure, the two assholes never so much as looked at him after that. But Lambert also didn’t really talk to anyone after that either. Besides, they died not too long after in the Trial of the Grasses.

“Geralt beat the shit outta them,” Eskel says carefully, watching Lambert with calm eyes.

“What?” Lambert asks, digging his fingers into the soft grass.

“Yeah. Brenot lost three teeth and he broke Asi’s arm and two ribs. I thought Geralt was going to kill them. He probably would have, if Vesemir had dragged him off of them.”

 _What?_ Lambert can’t believe it. Geralt would _never_ lose control like that—

“Yeah,” Eskel says, watching him carefully. “Geralt heard them bragging about what they did over dinner and he got up and beat them bloody in front of the entire castle.”

Lambert blinks. No wonder he didn’t see Brenot and Asi for a week afterwards…

“Vesemir told me he sent them out to hunt for a week as punishment,” Lambert says.

“He did. He just didn’t tell you the state they were in when they left,” Eskel says. 

Lambert lays back on the earth, staring up into the sky. It’s turning grey with threatening rain. Grass whispers in the wind. He feels shaken and wrong-footed. The idea of Geralt— perfect, handsome Geralt— losing his cool like that…it doesn’t compute. At the same time he feels oddly warmed by the knowledge that Geralt defended him like that...

Lambert remembers that time well. Geralt had been the older, quiet witcher that everyone was simultaneously afraid of and entranced by. With his white hair and extra trials, he was _different_ and _mysterious,_ and everyone wanted a piece of him. Geralt had never really talked to Lambert before, but he remembers Geralt appearing more frequently after that incident. He always seemed to be at the periphery of Lambert’s gaze, and they rarely spoke more than a handful of words to each other. Eventually Lambert progressed enough in his training to work under Geralt, and that was when his stupid crush blew out of proportion. And then the final trial…the one that took the rest of his classmate’s lives and left him alone…

Geralt had been by his side the entire time— a quiet, stable force amongst the chaos. Lambert shakes his head.

“There a reason you’re telling me this now?” Lambert asks running a hand over his face.

He hears Eskel sigh.

“Geralt is an idiot, but he’s a good-hearted idiot,” Eskel says.

“Always so eager to jump to his defense…” Lambert complains, crossing his arms.

“It’s not that,” Eskel murmurs. “It’s just that I’m tired of you two dancing around each other and getting hurt.”

“Eskel—“ Lambert growls. Eskel is always on about this, insisting that Geralt actually cares for him the same way Lambert cares for Geralt. It’s _bullshit._

“Geralt cares for you, more than you know,” Eskel says, brow dipping low in frustration. “And if you’d both just get your heads outta your asses you’d be able to see it. Geralt will never make the first move, because he has some weird, fucked up chivalry thing going on—“

Lambert snorts a laugh. Sounds like the White Wolf.

“He does. And he doesn’t want to hurt you. Ever,” Eskel says, and the sincerity in his voice makes Lambert’s throat squeeze closed.

Fuck.

“Look,” Eskel says, and Lambert’s muscles tense. “If you wanna talk about it, I’m here.”

Lambert swallows, throat painful and thick. He has to take several deep breaths before he can speak.

“Thanks, Eskel,” Lambert mumbles, feeling stupid and inadequate.

“Don’t mention it,” Eskel says, and Lambert feels the air shift as Eskel lays back on the grass next to him.

Fuck.

He should talk about it. Eskel’s the smart one— he’ll probably understand what happened better than Lambert. Maybe he’ll even know what the fuck is going on in Lambert’s head to make him so unstable.

But he can’t seem to get his voice to work.

“I can’t,” he murmurs, feeling liquid burn at his eyes. He blinks rapidly, frustration sparking in his chest.

“Okay,” Eskel acknowledges easily.

Lambert takes a deep breath, willing the memories back, shoving them away.

It’s stupid. Geralt would never hurt him, especially not like _that_ —

So why had he panicked so badly? It was mortifying and stupid. It was like he was a child again, stuck beneath that man, humiliated, shamed, and that _pain—_

He clears his throat, shivering.

“It was just…a memory,” he grits out, hoping desperately that Eskel will connect the dots without Lambert having to say it.

"Ah," Eskel says and Lambert slams his eyes closed, shame bursting forth in his chest.

“I thought that might be it,” Eskel says. “That’s what my mind jumped to as well.”

Lambert swallows, blood flushing his cheeks.

“I’m fine,” he lies, blinking his eyes open and focusing on the dark clouds passing overhead.

“Lambert—“ Eskel murmurs.

No. He can’t take Eskel’s sympathy right now.

He stands, brushing imaginary dirt off of his legs.

Eskel follows his lead and starts to walk back up the path towards the castle.

“C’mon. The goats need tending to,” Eskel says. Lambert’s shoulders drop, shivering as tension leaves him. He can do that. He can sit and dole out some vegetables for Eskel’s goats. That won’t make his panic like a freak—

Will it? Shit.

Can he be relied upon at all?

“I can feel you overthinking, Lambert,” Eskel says, a soft smile tugging at his scarred lips. “Come on.”

Lambert sighs and starts following him. They don’t talk along the way up to the castle, and Lambert tries to focus on the present— the sound of the grass and trees in the wind, the crunch of dirt beneath Eskel’s heavy boots, the smell of fresh earth and clear air.

All too soon they reach the castle walls and dread wells up in Lambert. Soon he will have to face Geralt— to see the confusion in his gaze…the disappointment…the pity…

Fuck.


	2. Bruise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt struggles to deal with the fallout of Lambert's panic.

GERALT

It feels like a long time passes before he spots Lambert and Eskel walking back up towards the castle. He stares down at them from walkway of the east battlement wall, grateful when they don’t look up and see him. A frown tugs at his lips as he watches Lambert’s bowed shoulders follow timidly behind Eskel. He looks small and defeated, and Geralt _hates_ it. What did they talk about?

They pause along the wall below him, murmuring quietly between themselves. Geralt is about to go back inside when Eskel reaches out, clapping a friendly hand on Lambert’s shoulder. Lambert _yelps_ , flinching away from the contact as though burned.

Geralt bites his cheek hard enough to taste iron—

But Lambert looks sheepish, reaching up to touch his shoulder— the same one he had wrenched when trying to escape Geralt’s grip. _Fuck._

He digs his fingers into the stone balcony wall, focusing on the rough scrape of stone against his skin. Lambert’s _hurt_. Geralt _hurt him_. His teeth grind.

Eskel holds a broad hand out, waiting, and Lambert steps closer. He ducks his head, glancing away as Eskel presses his fingers into his injured shoulder. The submissive tilt of his neck makes Geralt’s blood boil—

He watches, not breathing, as Eskel moves Lambert’s arm, testing the injury. He lets go once he’s satisfied, and Lambert’s cheeks are pink when he glances up at Eskel. He’s probably embarrassed— the youngest witcher has always been oddly prone to blushing— and Eskel murmurs something in a reassuring tone as they head out towards the south side of the castle.

They’re probably going to feed Eskel’s goats— that usually relaxes Lambert, and Geralt chastises himself for not thinking of that in the first place. Why did he suggest _sparring? Gods damn it all._

Geralt stands there for a long time, staring unblinking out over the placid lake.

-

Once he manages to unclench his fingers from the stone, Geralt slumps into the kitchen to help Vesemir butcher the deer he and Eskel caught that morning. Vesemir shoots a pointed look at him but he ignores it, grabbing a knife and getting to work.

He can’t remember the last time he helped cook at Kaer Morhen— he’s terrible in the kitchen— but right now he feels a desperate need to stick a knife into something.

The sun begins to set before he hears Eskel and Lambert walk into the great hall just outside the kitchen. He listens while they start a fire in the hall’s large hearth, and after some light bickering sounds Eskel appears at the kitchen door. His broad shoulders are tense and heavy with stress.

Geralt watches out of the corner of his eye as Eskel moves around the room, gathering a large cup of farro, dumping it into a old copper pot and filling it with water.

_Fuck._

“That bad?” Vesemir asks, failing to sound nonchalant.

Eskel nods with his back to them, lighting a fire beneath the pot with Igni. Normally Vesemir would chastise the blasé use of a sign, but now he just frowns and goes back to cutting up a deer leg.

Something sick and angry simmers in Geralt’s chest. They all know what that meal means. Lambert gets…odd…around food when he’s particularly emotionally distressed. He has been that way since he was a child and on the days when he struggles the worst he can barely manage to keep a thin soup down. But what’s worse is that this time it’s _Geralt’s fault_ that Lambert is like this.

He finishes butchering the deer in front of him and moves to the washbasin, spending too much time scrubbing his hands with rough soap.

-

Vesemir starts bringing the butchered deer down to the ice house for freezing. It’s several trips of work, and Geralt takes it upon himself to chop some vegetables.

They might as well all have soup. He roughly chops some carrots, onions, and potato— dropping a good portion into the pot Eskel is working on and reserving some for the rest of them. They’ll add deer to theirs. Lambert never eats animals.

On Vesemir’s third trip down to the ice house Eskel turns and faces Geralt, bracing his broad palms against the stovetop counter. As always, he can see through Geralt’s bullshit.

“It’s not your fault, Geralt,” Eskel murmurs and the fucking sympathy in his voice is grating. Geralt sighs and drops the knife onto the counter with a clang.

“I don’t see how it could possibly not be my fault,” he admits, staring down at the horribly cut vegetables.

“Ask him about it,” Eskel suggests.

Geralt’s brow furrows and he glances up.

“Not today,” Eskel clarifies, stirring the soup without taking his eyes off Geralt. “But sometime. I guarantee you: this isn’t your fault.”

-

After a quiet, subdued dinner Vesemir excuses himself to his chambers and Geralt volunteers to help Eskel with the dishes. Lambert volunteers as well, but Eskel quietly points out how he nearly fell asleep in his soup and the youngest wolf disappears to sit on the couch by the hearth, shoulders tense. He hates any slight to his abilities, no matter if it’s his abilities as a witcher or as a person, but he had only managed to eat half a bowl of soup and Eskel isn’t one to be trifled with when he gets into his mother-henning phases.

-

They linger over the dishes, not talking. Geralt volunteers to dry and Eskel nods gratefully before disappearing for the evening.

Geralt likes drying dishes— it gives him time to _think_ away from anyone else. He has always worried about Lambert more than any other witchers— from the day he was brought up to Kaer Morhen as a child, stubbornly holding back tears, until now—as an adult with a life separate from them. Every year he feels Lambert slipping further and further away from him. And he knows his… _concern_ is inappropriate. Lambert doesn’t feel the same and he shouldn’t have to deal with Geralt’s bullshit anyway. But what happened today— to have Lambert actively _fear_ him— that’s new and horrible. When did Geralt become that person? Is he so out-of-touch that he didn’t notice?

The bowl in his hand squeaks as he rubs incessantly at the dry surface and he sighs, putting the last of the dishes away.

Stepping out into the great hall his heart leaps—Lambert is asleep on the oversized couch in front of the roaring hearth. Geralt pauses by the kitchen, wondering if he should just walk by or…

He’s halfway past the couch when he hesitates.

Lambert’s laying on his side, wearing only his red tunic and pants. His boots have been shoved aside so as not to get any mud on the furniture (the amount of times Vesemir has chastised them for getting mud inside…). He looks calm in sleep— his dark brows smoothed out, breathing slowly and deeply. Geralt’s heart tugs and he feels a very familiar desire to card his hands through the dark hair—

_Fuck it._

Geralt grabs one of the thick wool blankets from the chest at the edge of the couch and walks around to look down at Lambert. The fire warms his back and he gently, carefully lays the worn blanket over Lambert, being cautious not to touch him.

 _He should leave,_ Geralt thinks, dropping to his knees in front of the fire. He should go to his chambers and sleep and _leave Lambert alone._

Lambert shifts under the blanket and the light sleeve of his tunic tugs up his forearm. Geralt’s eyes drop like magnets to his wrist and his heart stutters. He was distracted earlier, but now he can see the red flush around Lambert’s wrist where Geralt had pinned him down. _Fuck._

He diverts his gaze quickly, stamping down on the desire to reach out and touch—soothe—

* * *

LAMBERT

He breathes in, consciousness coming back to him. He feels _warm_ — someone’s put a blanket on him— and he’s tempted to just drift back off into sleep. But something shifts at the edge of his consciousness and he blinks his eyes open.

_Oh._

Geralt is sitting in front of the hearth several feet away from him, braced on his knees as though settling down to meditate. The flames leap up, throwing light across his broad shoulders and reflecting an orange halo along his white hair. He’s frowning down at the old, worn rug as though it had personally offended him.

 _Why is he so fucking pretty?_ Lambert whines to himself.

Geralt shifts on his knees and his frown flattens out to something sad and _desperate._ Lambert's stomach burns at the sight. It _hurts—_

“Well that’s not creepy at all,” he blurts out, urgently wanting the feeling to go away.

Geralt glances up, the expression wiping off his face and leaving an emotionless mask behind. _Fuck._

“You gonna stare at me all night?” Lambert’s asks, trying to smirk and failing.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says.

Lambert blinks at him, waiting. When no further explanation seems forthcoming he takes the plunge.

“What?” Lambert asks, sitting up and letting the blanket fall off his shoulders. He watches Geralt’s eyes track the movement and he pulls the blanket back up, covering himself.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Geralt says, gesturing with his chin towards Lambert’s wrist.

He looks down at where Geralt had grabbed him. There’s a red ring of bruising blooming across his skin and his stomach jolts. It’s not an unpleasant jolt though—

He feels a rush of shame for getting off on it when Geralt is clearly upset.

“It’s fine,” he says, pressing his fingers into the reddened skin. “It’ll be gone by morning.”

“That’s not the point,” Geralt grumbles.

Lambert opens his mouth—

“It would be okay if you weren’t fine,” Geralt blurts out. He grimaces to himself, shifting on his heels.

Lambert bites his lip, staring into the fire and trying desperately to think of what to say. It’s clear Geralt isn’t talking about his minor scrapes and bruises, and Lambert really doesn’t want to talk about what’s going on in his head. Gods, Geralt would think he’s _nuts—_

“I’m sorry for freaking out on you earlier,” he finally mumbles, eyes darting up to meet Geralt’s gaze. Blood rushes up his neck at the intense look in Geralt’s eyes and he tears his eyes away, focusing on the flames over Geralt’s shoulders.

“I guess I just need some sleep,” he lies, knowing Geralt can sense the falsehood.

“Hmm,” Geralt hums. He stands abruptly, moving closer to the couch.

“Let me see your arm,” Geralt grumbles, holding a hand out.

Lambert looks up at him in surprise.

“What?” he asks. This angle makes his heart thud hard against his ribcage— staring up at Geralt, his warm, heady scent so close and familiar—

“Your arm. You wrenched it pretty badly,” Geralt says. White locks of hair have fallen loose from his hair tie, brushing across Geralt’s high cheekbones and Lambert wants to tangle his fingers in the long strands and _tug—_

“’m fine,” Lambert says, going to cross his arms and wincing.

Geralt hums.

“Fuck, whatever,” Lambert whines, holding his left arm out.

Geralt takes Lambert’s hand in his, the warmth of his touch shocking against Lambert’s skin. Geralt’s strong fingers press into the meat of Lambert’s palm and push the hem of his sleeve up. Holding his palm steady, Geralt uses the fingers of his free hand to rub lightly along the bruising, testing the bones beneath for any damage. Air shivers out of Lambert’s lungs with the mindful touch and he swallows hard.

“It’ll be gone by morning,” Lambert reiterates, willing his voice to stay steady and sure.

“Doesn’t matter,” Geralt murmurs. “I’m still sorry.”

He keeps his grip on Lambert’s palm and reaches up to check his shoulder. Lambert focuses desperately on his breathing, trying to stay calm as Geralt’s warm palm presses into the joint. It twinges, but the heat of Geralt’s palm through his tunic is a balm— intoxicating and dangerous—

“It’s just strained,” Lambert says, voice going husky.

“Hmm,” Geralt mumbles, eloquent as ever, and his hand brushes down Lambert’s bicep—

Lambert swallows, pulling his arm away. Geralt immediately lets go, stepping back and giving him space like the Gods damn gentleman he is.

“It was a mistake— my mistake. Nothing to worry about,” Lambert says, reaching up to rub at his neck. His shoulder burns and he flinches, dropping his hand back down.

“It’s my fault anyway,” he confesses, shame heavy and sharp in his chest. The memories prod at him, trying to sneak in—

Geralt opens his mouth, and Lambert suddenly knows he’s going to ask what happened and Lambert _can’t—_

He stands, stepping away and avoiding Geralt’s gaze.

“’M gonna go sleep,” he says. “See you in the morning.”

And he steps around Geralt, hurrying out of the great hall without looking back.

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter warnings: flashbacks to childhood sexual assault, descriptions of animal death (specifically the death of a pet), Lambert has some very negative thought patterns.


End file.
